


our stories of the gentle fall

by strikinglight



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Crush at First Sight, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sports, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, also sugasahi friendship is beautiful and pure, flirty Suga is dangerous, lbr Daichi is the most solid of solid dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/pseuds/strikinglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Koushi wants to say something kind and consoling and wise, something like <i>Nothing’s ever wasted,</i> or <i>I believe in us</i>—because he does, he really does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I obey your law of gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as "Ask-box-fics-get-way-out-of-hand-again-ad-infinitum."
> 
> Daisuga prompt fill for [3\. "Please, don't leave."](http://striking-light.tumblr.com/post/136928022015/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-you-a-one-shot)

The first thing Koushi knows about him is that he’s got great shoulders.

It’s the day of the entrance ceremony and his class is lined up in the front courtyard, and to keep awake he’s thinking about how the guy in front of him really is sort of cute, even from the back. Tall-ish, tan, with close-cropped dark hair and a sturdy build—the shoulders broad, the arms and legs unusually muscled for a first-year. Cute, in a solid kind of way. He looks strong.

There’s something in particular about those shoulders that Koushi warms to immediately. They’re set straight across, neither slumped nor hiked aggressively high. Koushi’s following the pleasing line they make with his eyes even as the line begins to move and they file into the gym one by one, then all too soon they’re turning left into the row of chairs set out for their class, and Shoulders is catching and holding his eye as they bend to take their seats.

“Morning,” Koushi says, voice light. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Sawamura Daichi,” Shoulders answers with a little smile; the way he puts his hand out for a handshake reminds Koushi so much of his buttoned-up salaryman father that he almost laughs. “And you?”

“Sugawara Koushi.” He’s got a nice voice too, though, Koushi thinks, and a very, very nice name, and he jumps at the chance to say it. “Good to meet you, Sawamura Daichi.”

He feels a bunch of butterflies all beating their wings against the inner walls of his stomach when their hands touch, and if the grin he puts on stretches his cheeks nearly to the point of pain he can always say it’s the first day high.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Koushi says, and pokes Sawamura gently in the back with the tip of his pen. “What are you thinking about for clubs?”

It’s the second week of class now, so these innocuous, harmless-because-school-related kinds of questions are par for the course between them. They greet each other good morning and goodbye every day, and they’ve cross-checked the day’s homework assignments with each other more than once.

Koushi still doesn’t know his favorite color or his best subject or what he likes to eat, but there’ll be time for all of that and more over what he hopes will be a very long and fruitful acquaintanceship indeed.

Sawamura turns in his seat, twists his body sideward so he can look Koushi in the eye, arms folded over the backrest of his chair. He always looks people in the eye when he’s talking to them, Koushi’s noticed. “I’m going to try out for the volleyball team.”

“Oh, me too!” He really did mean to, of course. But with Sawamura’s eyes on him it’s shockingly hard to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, so he adds, “And Azumane—you know the big guy at the back?—and some others, I think. D’you play in middle school?”

“Y-yeah, some.” He falters at the question, and Koushi wonders if maybe he’s overstepped, but then he clears his throat and continues. “I used to be, uh. Captain. On my old team, I mean.”

“Fantastic! You should get in no problem, then.”

And that’s most definitely a flush spreading beneath Sawamura’s skin.

 

* * *

 

On days that he’d like some quiet during lunch hour, Koushi joins Azumane on the roof.

The other first-years tend to give him a wide berth—it’s probably the long hair, Koushi thinks sympathetically, or that intimidating chinbeard, or the fact that he isn’t very talkative—but Koushi likes Azumane. When they’re alone together he fusses over Koushi’s pale skin and slim wrists with all the needling tenacity of a mother, and he always, always shares his lunches. He catches chills easily in the wintertime and makes it a point to look both ways at least twice before crossing the street. All told there’s a softness about Azumane that makes Koushi want to protect him, even if he’s taller than Koushi and nearly twice as broad and the idea’s more than a little absurd.

It also helps their friendship that he’s a really, really good listener, and that no one comes up to the roof much, which leaves Koushi free to talk about his deep, dark, not-so-secret crush without fear of embarrassment.

“He’s just such a—" Koushi pauses around a mouthful of rice, drawing circles in the air with his chopsticks as he waits for the right words to come to him and click. “What is it… Just such a solid dude, you know? A really solid dude.”

“You didn’t just call Sawamura a solid dude.”

“I did, and I can again if I want to. And isn’t he?” He finds that he’s smiling despite himself.

“You’re so gone,” Azumane remarks, fondly, and flicks at a stray grain on Koushi’s cheek with a soft snort. “But yeah, I guess he is that. A solid dude.”

“It sounds even weirder when you say it,” Koushi says, reaching across to steal some tamagoyaki.

 

* * *

 

Coach Ukai drives them hard, but Koushi thinks Sawamura drives himself even harder.

Most evenings the gym lights stay on after practice officially concludes and the rest of the team leaves, shining out at Koushi as he passes on his way home. Koushi knows that it’ll probably be full dark by the time Sawamura locks up, and that he’ll probably still come in a whole hour ahead of everyone else in the morning to work on his serves, like he always does. He doesn’t miss the scattering of bruises all over Sawamura’s arms and on his knees, either, from what must amount to several days’ worth of extra diving drills.

Sawamura doesn’t seem to care that Karasuno hasn’t made it past the inter-high preliminaries in years. He still throws himself—a little too literally sometimes, Koushi thinks as he watches him dive nose-first after the ball—into every practice session like they’re training for the Olympics. Sometimes it’s enough to even make Koushi believe, their school’s dismal tournament record be damned.

Koushi’s not the only one who notices. He’s caught the upperclassmen giving each other pointed, appraising looks behind Sawamura’s back more than once, counted their nods of quiet approval: _Mark that one, mark him, mark him._

 

* * *

 

Their first year looks to be ending on a rough note when the season passes and leaves the team without a single win under its belt. On the last official practice day before exams, Sawamura volunteers to do solo cleanup, all gentle smiles and quiet reassurances as he ushers the upperclassmen out of the club room. Koushi’s not sure why he lingers at first, but it becomes all too clear when he hears the choking, shuddering breaths from behind the door.

When he turns the knob and reenters he finds Sawamura cross-legged on the floor, his head in his hands, shoulders heaving up and down with every sob.  

“Hey.” Koushi kneels on the floor next to him, throat tight. He wants to reach out and touch him, gently, on the shoulder or the knee or the outside of the arm, but he doesn’t. “What’s wrong?”

It’s a stupid question, of course. He knows what’s wrong. He saw the other boys side-eyeing them in the big arena in Sendai, like they were a bedraggled little flock of blackbirds with their wings clipped. He knows.

Sawamura ducks his head down, scrubs his hands so roughly across his face and over his hair that for a second Koushi’s worried they’ll leave claw marks. “I’m—I’m sorry,” is all he says.

“No,” Koushi tells him. “Don’t say sorry.” _I’m here,_ he wants to say, but he’d like to think that much is obvious at least.

“I just—” Sawamura’s hands are covering his face again. He takes a deep breath, backpedals, and tries again.

“Does it all ever feel like a waste?” he asks, and his voice cracks so painfully on the word _waste_ that it takes Koushi’s heart right along with it.

Koushi wants to say something kind and consoling and wise, something like _Nothing’s ever wasted,_ or _I believe in us—_ because he does, he really does. They could be something one day, the two of them and Asahi too, and anyone else who’ll still be willing to throw in their lot with the Karasuno boys’ volleyball club in the next year or two, any other weird kids and misfits and strays.

They could make something out of that, the two of them together, and the very idea makes his chest tighten and his throat run dry, so all that comes out is, “Please don’t leave.”

That’s the first time throughout this entire conversation that Sawamura raises his head and looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and his eyes are wet and bloodshot but Koushi’s heart skips a beat or three anyway.

“Of course I won’t leave,” he says, with a watery smile. He’s barely finished his sentence before Koushi chimes in, too hastily, “Then I won’t either.”

Then Koushi’s reaching into his pocket and pulling out his handkerchief, and maybe he’s running his mouth a bit too much because the next thing he says is, “Here, use this, I don’t want your mom to think I’m not treating you right.” But it’s worth potentially throwing himself under the bus when Sawamura laughs, coughs, laughs some more, the sound so deep and rich it warms up the whole room.

If Sawamura’s hand brushes his as he takes the handkerchief, just a beat too long for it to be an accident, neither of them say anything about it.

 

* * *

 

It begins with a _Thanks, no one’s ever done that for me before_ that night, to which Koushi replies _I’ve got your back._ By the time spring break rolls around, they’re texting pretty much every day. Of course the first thing Koushi does when he actually notices is inform Asahi of this development, calling him up at home one evening after dinner.

“What does he say?” It sounds like he’s doing the dishes; Koushi can hear the water babbling down into the sink as he talks, the plates clanking gently one against the other as they’re placed with utmost care on the drying rack. “Sawamura’s a great guy, but he doesn’t exactly strike me as a smooth operator.”

“Um, in the morning, he says ‘good morning.’” Koushi’s hair is wet from the shower, and his bare legs dangle lazily in the air above his bed, feet kicking gently back and forth against the wall. He feels a bit like a giddy girl, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Then at night, he asks me, ‘How was your day?’”

“…That’s it?”

This earns a huff from Koushi; he didn’t think someone as soft-hearted as Asahi even had it in him to sound so disdainful. “It’s _everything,_ Asahi.”

And it is, truly, because Koushi finds he’s never met someone as earnest as Sawamura before. He treats Koushi’s anecdotes about doing the groceries for his mother or taking his little sister to the park or walking their dog as if they’re the most fascinating stories he’s ever heard, and there’s a wonderfully unvarnished sincerity to the seemingly dull-sounding questions that come blipping into Koushi’s inbox after the first reply. _What are you buying? How old is she? What kind of dog do you have?_ Questions about what he does, how he lives when he’s outside their safe little bubble of school and games and training, questions he seems to genuinely want to know the answer to.

In return Koushi asks his own questions _(How are you spending the break? Do you have any siblings?)_ , folds up the answers _(helping out at the family restaurant; a younger brother, he’s in junior high now)_ and stows them away in his shirt pocket, right above his heart. It’s a little alarming how fast new questions bloom in his head with every staccato-tap his fingers make against his phone's keyboard, like he’ll never run out of things to learn where Sawamura’s concerned.

“You can go see him whenever you want, you know,” Asahi points out. “We don’t exactly live in a big town.”

“That’s surprisingly bold, coming from you. We aren’t even at talking on the phone yet.” Koushi laughs, but thinks, _Maybe, maybe—_


	2. a constant satellite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pre-series timeline is kind of fuzzy in my head, so apologies for any inconsistencies with canon--just move along, move along.
> 
> Also these two are killing me send help.

Six in the morning is way too early for anyone in their right mind to be in school on any given day, much less the first day of the new term, but Koushi’s already reconciled with himself that Sawamura may not exactly be in his right mind, especially where volleyball is concerned. And that, by extension, Koushi’s not always in his right mind either, these days.

When Koushi slides open the door he finds him on the floor in the middle of a warm-up; Sawamura’s in the middle of bending to touch his toes, and as he peers out at Koushi from underneath the curve of his arm, the grave, determined expression on his face looks comical, almost dopey.

“Honestly,” Koushi says, tilting his head at an odd sideward angle to be able to see his face properly, voice echoing off the walls of the empty gym, “if they don’t make you captain after this year I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Sawamura doesn’t answer right away—just sort of shrugs, like Koushi’s always seen him do in the face of admiration—but he does light up a little when Koushi sits beside him. “You think things will be different this year?”

“I know so,” Koushi tells him, because what else is there to say?

 

* * *

 

Their captain puts them in charge of the small pool of first years, and for a while things look like they’re starting to come alive. The gym and the club room fill with more and more threads of voices, more embarrassing habits (Ennoshita falls asleep on the floor and Tanaka throws his clothes everywhere, and Nishinoya won’t stop calling the two of them Mom and Dad no matter how much Sawamura glares him down), and some days Koushi can’t help but feel like they’re babysitting far more than they are training a team that’ll stand on the national stage one day.

Still, with them around Koushi finds it’s easier to smile during practice, so he tries to talk to them as much as he can, makes sure he’s always ready to pat a back or pass a water bottle or offer some carefully strung-together words of encouragement. They’re polite when they don’t forget themselves, and oddly funny in the nonsensical things they like to talk about, and Sawamura seems to agree. For all that he’s always groaning and rubbing his forehead at something one of them has done or said, Koushi’s caught him pinching his lips together to keep from laughing out loud more times than he can count.

He also knows for a fact that Nishinoya and Tanaka have invaded Sawamura’s solo after-hours practice sessions more than once, something Koushi himself hasn’t yet mustered the temerity to do—and, well, the fact that they’re both still alive must count for something.

Somewhere along the way, in the midst of all these new people and this increased responsibility, Sawamura stops being _Sawamura_ and becomes _Daichi._ Koushi doesn’t know exactly how this happens, only that they’d met each other’s eyes during a three-on-three one day and Daichi had opened his hands for the ball, and all of a sudden the name was on Koushi’s lips as easily as if he’d been using it forever. As he sent the ball spinning across the court he just knew somehow that it was okay, Daichi’s name safe and at rest in his hands.

Koushi thinks the name suits him. Daichi means _earth,_ and Daichi is earth and everything the earth implies—reliability, steadiness, strength—and when they stand beside each other the ground feels that much more secure beneath Koushi’s feet.

But because it’s the responsible thing to do, he makes it a point not to think about what it means that he’s now allowed to use it. Most days it’s enough for Koushi to bite his lip against the temptation to feel special, and covertly squeeze the life out of Asahi’s arm when the fluttering in his chest becomes too much.

 

* * *

  

They squeeze through one game in the spring prelims—and that already feels to Koushi like conquering the world—but then the second game comes only a few hours later, and Datekou breaks them.

They lose the first set by eight; the second finds them down by eight again. Koushi can feel the muscles in his arms beginning to tense and tighten, and he sees Asahi starting to panic as Koushi knows he does sometimes, bent nearly double with his eyes screwed shut and a fist pressed to his chest. But Daichi’s there for every spike that rebounds off the Iron Wall, skimming his hands gently over their backs, his voice pitched low as he tells them again and again, “Don’t mind it, don’t mind it, we’ll get the next one.”

But they don’t get the next one, or the one after that, and even before the final whistle wails shrill in his ears and the game ends 25:15 Koushi knows that it’s over for them.

Still he finds his head spinning with worry over too many things. Asahi rooted to the spot beside him, looking for all the world like he’s had all the blood in his body sucked out, even as Kurokawa-san motions them all to get in line for the final bow. The red, raw, crescent-shaped indentations in the heels of Noya’s palms where he’s dug his fingernails in. The tremors in Daichi’s voice that only Koushi can hear from his place beside him in the line, the minute hairpin cracks as they yell “Thank you very much!” into the thick, stifling air of the big stadium, without a clue who they’re expressing all that gratitude to or what for.

They sit next to each other in the van on the way back to school, and Koushi doesn’t know if the road’s just weirdly bumpy or everything around him really does suddenly feel fragile, tenuous, on the verge of collapse.

“Suga.” Daichi leans, and their shoulders press together; the contact stops the shaking a bit, at least for Koushi. “Why don’t you sleep for a while? You look tired.”

Koushi sees Daichi’s face drawn tight beside him, sees his spine about to cave in, and wonders just how he does it, how he can possibly look at Koushi and say _You look tired_ with that quiet, unassuming gentleness. Koushi can’t imagine being so generous. It almost doesn’t seem real.

“You do too. C’mon,” he says, patting his shoulder. There’s some small comfort to be found in the fact that Daichi doesn’t hesitate before he leans in still further, and his eyes drift closed even before his head makes contact with the folds of Koushi’s jacket, and for a few minutes all Koushi does is watch him, tender and afraid. It’s only when Daichi’s breathing deepens, evening out into true sleep, that he rests his head against the window of the van and shuts his own eyes.

 

* * *

  

He feels like someone’s carved out a chunk of his heart when Asahi quits the team.

He knows it’s not entirely reasonable to be feeling this way, and that it’s honestly kind of screwed up, because it’s not as if Asahi’s _dead._ They still see each other almost every day, though the phone calls and the lunches on the rooftop are fewer and farther between. Nine times out of ten Asahi won’t even look at him, will just mumble a greeting under his breath and shuffle out of his way with that melancholy whipped-puppy look on his face that says _Blame me, blame me._ And if he’s being honest, the idea that he could even imagine it—could conceive of Koushi pointing a finger at him and telling him _It’s all your fault—_ hurts more than the loss itself.

Koushi puts on a brave face for the team, especially since Noya’s already been suspended from club activities for a month for starting fights in the hallway and they really don’t need anything else putting a damper on their spirit, but Kurokawa-san and even iron-fisted Coach Ukai are making calls to end practice earlier lately. When this happens Koushi excuses himself with what’s probably a pale counterfeit version of his usual smile and walks home twice as fast as usual.

One Tuesday, though, Daichi catches him by the sleeve and asks him if he’d like to get ice cream. This is nearly enough to startle Koushi out of his exhaustion, because he never realized Daichi even had a sweet tooth.

They stand awkwardly in the doorway of the gym, half-in, half-out, Daichi’s hand lingering uncertainly on his elbow.

“Of course,” he says, after a pause. “Let’s go.”

He lets Daichi lead the way to the store just down the street from school. They buy a popsicle to share, the kind that splits in the middle, and Koushi cracks it straight down as they hover on the curb, shifting idly from foot to foot and watching the sun go down without speaking.

“I doubt he’ll ever let me toss to him again.” He doesn’t say it to be a downer, but Daichi’s been looking at Koushi all day like he’s been waiting for him to tell him something true, and Koushi can’t imagine being so straightforward with anyone else.

“You can still toss to Tanaka,” Daichi answers, tentative, testing. There are tiny, sticky circles on the toes of his sneakers and on the cement at his feet where the popsicle in his hand has dripped. “You can still toss to me.”

What he means is that Koushi isn’t alone, that the world doesn’t end with him and Asahi feeling like they’ve failed each other. Koushi’s sure that’s what he means, but he also knows it would be _too_ revelatory to actually say it aloud, even for them. As it is there’s already a part of his brain that’s throwing a fit at the other parts about what business he has being here, slouching against a lamppost and pouring his ugly feelings out at the feet of some boy.

But this boy is unlike anyone he’s ever met. Daichi’s staid and patient and he tries too hard at times to be the strongest person in the room, but he could well be Koushi’s favorite person in the world, barring his family and Asahi, all the same.

“Thanks, Daichi.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, and a small voice at the back of Koushi’s head says this is probably the warmest he’s felt in days. “Can I walk you home?”

It’s only when he’s safely back in his room and toweling his hair off after his evening shower that Koushi allows himself to wonder—partly just because it’s funny, but partly because Daichi had lingered a little before turning for home, watching Koushi shut and lock his gate, and Koushi can’t stop thinking about how soft his eyes had looked through the bars for a second there— whether or not that had been a date.

 

* * *

 

A week later Koushi makes lunch for Asahi. He throws some extra sugar in the tamagoyaki, shapes the onigiri by hand, and when the bell rings for lunch he walks straight up to Asahi’s desk and stares hard at the reticent slump of his shoulders, the crows’ feet pricked at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just slides the bento onto the table and bumps a fist gently against his shoulder.

Asahi looks up at him, eyes wide like he’s missed him desperately but doesn’t know quite what to say either.

Daichi’s standing at the front of the classroom, erasing the blackboard. Koushi thinks he’s watching them out of the corner of his eye, chewing at his lower lip, making a concerted effort not to smile.

 

* * *

 

“You coming?” Koushi asks once they’ve finished cooling down, his bag already hanging from one shoulder.

They’ve been walking home together after practice some days—not every day, just once or twice a week, no more—but today Daichi blinks at him apologetically, and his hand goes to the back of his neck.

“Sorry, do you mind going on ahead today? Kurokawa-san asked me to stay for a bit after cleanup; I think he and Coach Ukai want a word.”

Koushi’s eyes slide to the corner of the gym where their captain and their coach stand hunched over Ukai’s clipboard, heads together, muttering to one another in what appears to be a faintly conspiratorial fashion. He’s maybe 95% sure he knows what this is about. Daichi should too, but there’s no sign of it in his face or voice; he sounds as earnest as always, oblivious.

“Okay.” He’s doing his best to keep his tone neutral, but he can feel those pesky butterflies stirring up as much of a commotion in the pit of his stomach as they did on the first day they met. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Can I call you later?” Daichi asks, cutting Koushi off before he can turn around and make for the door. They’ve never spoken on the phone before. Koushi’s not sure if he’s amused or horrified to see the tips of Daichi’s ears reddening. “If you’re not busy, that is.”

“I won’t be busy,” Koushi says, too quickly. He feels his own ears beginning to burn under his hair, so he doesn’t tell Daichi that he’ll be waiting—instead he says “Take care” and leaves it at that, telling himself he doesn’t feel Daichi’s eyes on his retreating back as he exits the gym at a shambling, confused little half-run.

The first thing he does when he’s off school grounds is pull his phone out of his pocket and text Asahi a barrage of exclamation points.

 

* * *

 

Koushi’s street is quiet; he’s watching the moths dance under the streetlight outside his window, idly twirling a pencil in one hand, when his phone trills and the sound catapults him straight back to Earth.

He yelps and drops the pencil, but somewhere between getting out of the swivel chair and kneeling to scrabble around for it beneath his desk manages to hit the Answer button all the same.

“I need to talk to you.” How like Daichi to cut right to the chase without even a _hello._ He sounds brisk and a little breathless, like he’s been running.

“So talk.” Koushi’s going for light, for casual. What he gets instead is something weird in the way his voice resonates in his own ears, a catch in his throat that makes him sound more like he’s being strangled. “That’s what phones are for, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Could you come down?”

That brings him up short just as he finally manages to reach that damn pencil. Koushi starts, hits his head against the underside of his desk. “Ow! Shit!”

“Suga?!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Koushi says, hauling himself to his feet. His brain seems to be shortcircuiting a little bit in the attempt to process the last thing he heard Daichi say, and he wonders faintly if it’s true that every time you hit your head a couple of your brain cells die. “What were you saying? You want me to come… down?”

“To your gate, yes.”

“To my…?” It’s only then that Koushi thinks to look out the window—and sure enough, that is indeed a familiar stocky silhouette out in the street in front of his house, hovering, cellphone pressed to one ear. He feels more than a little stupid when he asks, “Are you outside my _house?”_

“Just two minutes,” Daichi says. Koushi wonders why it doesn’t sound like he’s caught his breath yet; did he really run all this way? “I’m really sorry, but Suga, please—”

“Yeah, no, of course. Hang on, I’ll just—” Koushi’s already sliding his feet into his flip-flops, skittering out into the hallway and down the stairs—past his mother and father in the kitchen, his little sister watching TV in the living room—and then he’s out on his front walk and he and Daichi are staring at each other all startled and goggle-eyed through the bars on his gate.

It’s only then that it occurs to him to terminate the call.

“Um, hi,” Koushi says, drawing closer. It’s a goofy way to start a seemingly important conversation, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Sorry, you were saying…?”

Now that they’re actually face to face it seems like Daichi’s lost all the things he was planning to say. If Koushi knows him at all, he probably had a whole speech pre-prepared, but the look he gives Koushi through the bars is wordless, all fear and joy and wonderment—all of those things at once, and Koushi’s heart hits itself hard against the inside of his chest.

“Coach Ukai.” He wets his lips, clears his throat a little. “Kurokawa-san. They want me—”

Koushi already has some idea of where this is going, but he finds himself holding his breath anyway.

“Next year, they—” Daichi stops again, scrubs a hand through his hair and makes a small, frustrated noise, something somewhere between a growl and a groan; Koushi has to bite his lip to stop himself from giggling and ruining the solemnity of the moment.

“They want me to be captain,” he finally says, and Koushi knew it was coming—he’s been hoping for this, praying for it nearly every day for more than a year—but the world around him pitches anyway. There are stars popping out in the air in front of his eyes in every color he could possibly imagine, and he wants to cheer, to yell, to jump three feet in the air.

Instead he tells Daichi, “I always knew you were special,” and of course he means it in more ways than being Really Good at Volleyball and having Fantastic Leadership Skills and Great Shoulders to Boot, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful for an excuse to finally say it. He’s smiling so wide it must look like his face is splitting in two above and below the mouth; Daichi’s blushing so hard Koushi can see it even in the flickering glow of the streetlamp.

“But that’s why I needed to see you,” he says—he looks for all the world like he has no idea what he’s saying either, like he’s just decided to jump on this wave and ride it all the way to the end, before his courage gives out. “I need— I want—” He bites his lip. “I’ll feel better about it with you there.”

Then Daichi’s reaching through the bars, taking Koushi by the elbows gently, like he’s made of glass, and it’s Koushi’s turn to gasp and color all the way to the roots of his pale hair. He feels his knees go watery—buckling, knocking together—and his mind spins electric around the words _Hey_ _what are you talking about I’ll always be with you._

“Do I need to get down on one knee?” Daichi looks more than a little frazzled when Koushi doesn’t answer, and Koushi knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d actually do it if asked. “Will you—will you be my vice-captain?”

Koushi knows it’s not even a question—hell, he’s almost certain Daichi knows it too—but they could both do worse than declare it, he thinks.

“I will,” he says. “I will,” and it feels heavy with the thousand and one other heart-things he hasn’t yet said.

He can’t help thinking that this whole affair is so like Daichi, because of course he’s not going to let anyone move mountains to be his biggest fan, for all that they want to. There’s no way he’d ever allow them to flicker and dim out because he sucks up all the light in the room. At every pass Daichi’s going to look them in the eye and reach out to pull them forward and say _I don’t shine if you don’t shine,_ and nothing is more real to Koushi in this moment than knowing that.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees his mother at the window, tapping a finger against the glass, head cocked in silent question. Koushi looks toward her for a beat and lifts his arm to wave before turning back to Daichi—his heart’s all up in his throat now but it’s now or never, and while they’re both still here he may as well pop a question of his own.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” he asks, smiling, and already he sees the road unfold, stretching out steady and bright with promise under their feet.


End file.
